


I wish I could love you right

by papa_ya



Category: GOT7, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Sex, Casual Sex, Clueless Kim Taehyung | V, Clueless jimin, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Manipulation, Endgame, Eventual Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Heartbreak, Idiots in Love, Lmao what did you expect, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Summer Vacation, Writers, blink and you miss it - Freeform, haha - Freeform, lying, what the fuck happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-30 06:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papa_ya/pseuds/papa_ya
Summary: “I see Taehyung is still hung up on the whole soulmate thing.”Jimin chuckles, a tired sound.“Yeah he is. He’s been dating this girl for about two months. He thinks she’s the one. Really excited about it.”“But are you?”--Jimin is in love, and Taehyung is oblivious.Taehyung being his soulmate makes things a thousand times more complex, and everything goes to shit.Or; love is hard.--





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is an AU in which soulmates are quite uncommon, and one-way soulmates occur often. It’s possible to be with somebody who is not your soulmate, although fate will eventually pull you together at some point in the future. However, it is also possible to fight fate. Fate and destiny are very different, and so my interpretation of soulmates is a little different from most soulmateAU’s I’ve read in my time. Pls don't scream at me in the comment section. 
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> [Soundtrack/ title inspo for this little mess](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rS6dWXGWVAg)

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Tae, what are you doing"_

_"Tae, please"_

_"Tae, get off of me"_

 

\--

 

He awakes with a start. The room is dyed deep indigo and his neck is resting at an uncomfortable angle. Namjoon touches him softly along the spine.

 

"Same dream?”

 

"Yeah”

 

There are wisps of smoke dancing in the air. Namjoon only smokes when he's sad. Usually after sex, sometimes before. They both think too much and their coping mechanisms are hardly healthy.

 

"Smoke less”

 

"Can't”

 

It's not his place to pluck the wilting cigarette from between his teeth. It's more his place to kiss those wasted lips, tangle a hand through his hair and pull him in for more. 

 

"Come close" Jimin whispers.

 

Namjoon obliges. His naked torso presses against Jimin's front and he relishes in the heady warmth of another's body against his own. 

 

They're just licking wounds. But it's all they know how to do. 

 

\--

 

Living with Taehyung means scheming. It means carefully calibrating his schedule so Namjoon (and some others but not as often) can slip through the cracks, unseen. Like an intricate tag-team system Namjoon departs and Taehyung enters, seventeen minutes later. Taehyung doesn't know. He can't know. That Jimin brings home strangers to fuck in their shared bedroom and has kissed more pairs of lips than he can count. He’s placed his hands on so many hearts (but they aren’t Taehyung, they’ll never be Taehyung) and he’s broken most, if not all.

 

It would all be a little less complicated if Taehyung wasn’t- well, _Taehyung._ Taehyung is problematic in the way that he is a dreamer. He wants it all. The happy family. Four children and a lovely wife. A house by the sea and a garden bursting with the scent of Magnolia.

 

Factor in soulmates, and Jimin is quite frankly, factored out (as if he wasn’t before).

 

So Jimin settles for less. He settles for strangers to soothe the ache. He settles for trying not to think about Taehyung and instead focusing his energy on preparing for the inevitable; the reveal of Taehyung’s soulmate and the combustion of his entire world. He waits with bated breath and a terribly anxious heart for Taehyung’s birthday like it’s his execution date (in a way, it is).

 

He can only hope it won’t hurt too much.

 

\--

 

“You need to be out in thirty-four minutes”

 

“Shit, better take a quick shower then”

 

“You do that”

 

Jimin watches the lanky expanse of Namjoon’s shoulders tense and uncoil as he pulls away and steps out of bed. He’s built, mature in that adult kind-of-way that betrays his age. At six years older than Jimin he has plenty going on, most of which he doesn’t care to divulge with Jimin. Which is fine. The bottom line of these relationships is to fuck more, talk less.

 

He doesn’t usually put himself with other people for extended periods of time. It feels cumbersome and wrong (and he couldn’t stop dreaming about Taehyung, try as he might). But Namjoon was different. When he had first seen him in that bar wearing his broken heart on his sleeve and drinking too much, he hadn’t hesitated to reach out.

 

Two broken people with the same vice. A recipe for something fractured, yet somehow comforting. A recipe for counterfeit love.

 

 

 

While Namjoon is showering Jimin takes a moment to imagine Taehyung right now, hurrying home after an all-nighter on university campus. He’ll most likely be wearing that green dress-shirt he ironed yesterday afternoon, or perhaps that loose white t-shirt he forgot in the gym lockers three nights ago. He probably hasn’t eaten anything since last night’s take-out Biryani, so either he’ll eat his favorite cereal when he arrives home or he’ll text Jimin asking-

 

 

His phone pings softly. His hand flies out to grab it instantaneously.

 

**Taetae: Im at that Japanese takeaway place you want anything?**

 

 

 

Naturally. He frightens himself with how well he knows Taehyung, how they’ve let their lives mesh together in an irrevocable fashion. It’s dangerous. He knows he’s shooting himself in the foot but he can’t let go.

 

He can't let go.

 

 

 

He can't let go.

 

\--

 

 

 

“When would you like to meet next?”

 

“Soon enough. I’ll text you.”

 

“Right”

 

 

Namjoon pauses at the door where he turns to fix Jimin in a steady gaze, fully clothed in a pair of ripped jeans and an oversized shirt. He looks the picture of calm adulthood.

 

 

“When’s the birthday again?”

“Exactly five months away now”

 

 

He hates himself for how automatically the answer comes. He can’t deny that his mind has been stuck on Taehyung’s coming of age for months, no, years now.

 

 

“Jimin- you know that you can come to mine. Whenever you need to.”

 

 

Jimin smiles sadly. He imagines living in Namjoon’s apartment, the very one he shared with Seokjin for years. Namjoon is just trying to fill the space. He can’t handle going home to a cold house, cold lights, eating by himself, sleeping by himself, waking up by himself. When Seokjin disappeared with a farewell in the form of a note, hurried writing slanting “don’t look for me” Namjoon had remained in that apartment for three weeks on end.

 

And even now, he stays grounded to it. Grounded to the pain, the memory, and the faintest hope that one day there would be a knock on the door and love would walk back into his life.

 

 

“Joonie- you know I can’t do that”

 

He doesn’t apply the nickname too liberally but in moments like this it only seems right. Namjoon is curling back in to that dark place and he retracts at an alarming pace; a tidal wave.

 

“Right. I get it. See you around”

 

And with that, he leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\--

Taehyung arrives soon after. He’s flushed rose gold from exertion and stuffing bags of takeaway beneath his armpits. He wrestles the food onto the kitchen table, an awful shabby thing they found in the tip when they were sixteen years old. They hadn’t had much then, save one another. It had started with a few words, a confession.

 

 

“My dad hits me sometimes. And he hits my sister real bad. I don’t know what happens when she leaves.”

 

“You should move out too”

 

“I can’t afford it. Not for a few more years.”

 

 

So they had moved out together. His parents had been furious; threatened him with disownment, refused to lend him money, cried, screamed, _anything_. But he had gone with Taehyung. They had scavenged what little they had, sold it off, and moved in to the most modest of share homes. It had been hell. They were just kids, and the world had been so _cruel._ They had almost given up on life, more times than they’d cared to imagine.

They’d pulled through, but barely.

 

It was only in the last year that things had really took a turn for the better. Jimin had published his first novella; anonymously. He hadn’t expected anything from it but the royalties were enough to afford them a better living, a better apartment and a quality life. Things were finally _alright,_ to the extent that they didn't need government handouts and four jobs between them anymore.

 

It hadn’t really come around, the whole soulmate stuff. It was uncommon. Only 18% of people woke up on their coming of age day, name of their soulmate permanently etched on some part of their body. Sometimes, that soulmate was dead. Or missing, presumed dead. More often than not, you’d never find the bastard.

 

It was so incredibly rare to find that person. So intermittent for the loose ends of fate to actually tie together to form a cohesive knot that Jimin hadn’t given it a second thought.

But Taehyung couldn’t get enough of it. He yearned for it. Dreamt of it. Lived it, breathed it. He was so adamant that somebody had been created for him and him only that he searched for it ceaselessly.

 

 

 

 

 

This morning is just the aftermath of another one of those nights. Taehyung in that tired dress shirt, tired face, disappointment etched deep in the curves of his faces. Jimin can guess his actions last night; combing through faces, crowds, desperately searching for the _one._ Failed date followed by failed date. This one had lasted a few nights. Taehyung had spoken animatedly about her lips, and the way her hair curled around his fingers in bed.

 

“Yeah, no.”

 

He doesn’t even have to ask what Taehyung’s denying.

 

“What was it this time?”

 

“She speaks too cruelly about her family. She frightens me with her hatred. I can only handle her in small dosages so it isn’t right.”

 

“You want to eat and talk about it?”

 

“Yes, please. Fuck.”

 

 

So they sit at their kitchen table, draw up two identical chairs and shovel takeaway into their tired mouths. Jimin tries to concentrate on what Taehyung’s telling him about this _girl_ , who he was so convinced was the answer to his question. Instead, he dwells on how Taehyung’s knuckles tighten around his chopsticks and the way he must have looked in bed last night when he told her they couldn’t see each other anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

It hurts, in a gentle sort of way.

When Taehyung is happy, he is mostly happy. When Taehyung is sad, he is devastated.

 

Jimin swings in time to Taehyung’s emotions; a pendulum of feeling.

Back and forth, back and forth.

 

 

 

 

 

\--

 

Taehyung departs to university and Jimin farewells him for what must be the few hundredth time, waving his hand clumsily at Taehyung’s retreating figure through the cheap window panes. As if by magic Taehyung senses his presence and turns back to cast his eyes on Jimin, waving back with equal vigor.

 

His heart cries again, stirring feebly. It’s a familiar ache.

 

 

With Taehyung gone, the apartment seems to quadruple in size. The clock ticks are deafening and the fridge hums loud as thunder. Some days it gradually drives him mad and he finds himself counting seconds and the slow arcs the ceiling fan makes as it spins lazily.

 

The first few months of freedom; of sleep-ins and staggered shifts and no-school had been heavenly. He threw around the word gap-year a lot as a sort of excuse, a default answer to scalding questions and quick judgements. In truth, he had been lost. One day during college he had woken up feeling awful tired. And not the kind of tired that could be cured with a good sleep and caffeine pills; more the tired which made him want to fade into obscurity and slip away unnoticed into nothingness.

 

Taehyung had refused to let him. He had pulled him up by the collars and screamed at him to get up, get up, get up. And over time, he had slowly, at an excruciatingly slow pace, had gotten back up.

During the recovery period he had written. He had taken every hard and terrible and dark thought lurking in the sinews of his heart and flushed it out onto A4 paper, bound it, and sent it away to anybody who might have cared.

 

Most didn’t.

 

And then somebody did. And when they promised to publish his story by the end of the month they had asked him if he wanted to dedicate the thing to anyone. _Taehyung,_ his mind had screamed, but instead he found himself asking for his name to be drawn from the cover.

Not telling Taehyung was his only regret as the novel climbed up the charts, found itself featured in magazines and newspapers and TV shows. And many weeks later when he had accidentally sat next to a college girl reading his book on a subway train, he had almost cried from happiness.

 

In essence, he had made it.

 

 

 

Jimin cleans the apartment, cooks dinner and packs it into plastic containers to freeze. July is an odd month weather-wise, the air muggy but still devoid of the scorching heat that will present itself within the next few weeks. His skin prickles with light sweat, and the rain comes often but not often enough. The laundry never dries.

 

The phone rings at 1:36PM. He has scrubbed the kitchen counter clean and is texting Taehyung about music, poetry, some dumb, arty shit.

 

 

**Incoming call: mingsugagenius jjang jjang man bboongbboong**

Right on time.

 

 

\--

 

At only two years older than him Yoongi is sullen and too quiet for his own good. Jungkook, is not. That the two could be soulmates is one of the most wonderfully confusing things in the world and yet, somehow they click and run smooth as anything. It’s gross but endearing.

Fifteen seconds through the door and Jungkook has Jimin pressed into his side, caught in the most brutal headlock of his life. He’d promised to take the kid out for lamb skewers and had flaked on him at least three times, mostly for Taehyung-related reasons. Yoongi chuckles lowly and Jimin smacks Jungkook’s ridiculously large bicep, signaling his surrender.

 

 

“So, what have you been up to?”

 

“Writing. And I stay at home less. I barista at this local place as well, like four times a week.”

 

“How’s the gap year going?”

 

“It’s alright. I don’t honestly feel like going back to school ever again though”

 

 

 

At this, Jungkook furrows his brow. He’s curiously study-oriented the kid; he really throws himself into music theory and exams. They’ve argued ceaselessly about this. Jimin thinks art is gained not learnt, while Jungkook insists firmly that a steady foundation of knowledge is essential for the perfection of one’s craft. Yoongi smokes a lot and listens solemnly to their debates.

Stupidly they play monopoly. Of course, they bicker. Another headlock, and Jimin is left wheezing for air. He retreats obediently to jail but reduces Jungkook to tears when he wins with a dynamic comeback. The air outside has turned yellow and the sun sets gently on the horizon.

 

 

With a loud clack, the door falls open. Taehyung is achingly good in sandals and chino shorts, his bag slung over his stooped shoulders. His face lights up like the sun.

 

 

“Jungkook-ah, Hyung. You should have told me you were coming”

 

“Tae, it’s so good to see you.”

 

 

And he means it. Yoongi is reserved with affection but he doesn’t hesitate to leap up and pull Taehyung into a bear hug. Jimin traces the thick outline of the name _Jeon Jungkook_ on the back of his thin upper arm.  

 

 

“How is the child rearing going, Taehyung?”

 

 

Taehyung laughs, a deep, ochre sound. Jimin smiles.

 

 

“Hardly child-rearing, hyung. It’s tricky. There’s a lot more to being a primary school teacher than I thought. And I don’t get to actually go on placement until what, next year?”

 

“Imagine that. Mr. Kim. You would be so fucking excellent”

 

 

Taehyung is practically bursting with pride. Praise means a lot, especially coming from Yoongi. Jimin knows the feeling. Jungkook is smiling warmly too. There is plenty of love here, in this cheap-ass kitchenette. They really do love each other a lot. He’s constantly prioritized quality over quantity with his friendships and it’s paid off.

They end up drinking late into the night and Jimin hauls Taehyung into his bed, rolling him between the sheets.

Jimin sees the other two out; helping Jungkook carry the snoring Yoongi to their car parked outside the apartment. Jungkook places Yoongi carefully, carefully into the front seat, as if he is made of glass and infinitely fragile. He’s fucking smitten and it’s a beautiful contrast to his usual cocky, shitty self.

 

 

“So, how’s living with Taehyung?”

 

“It has its moments.”

 

 

They don’t talk often about Jimin’s one-sided infatuation with Kim Taehyung, and it's better kept that way. So this is a bit of a deviation from the norm, but he’s warm with liquor and sobering up slowly enough to have this conversation.

 

 

“Jiminie”

 

“It’s hyung to you, brat”

 

“Hyung”

 

 

Oh. A serious talk then.

 

 

“When are you going to stop living with Taehyung?”

 

“I-“

 

“Hyung, Taehyung will never stop searching for his soulmate. And what if he has one? What if he moves out on you and goes to her? What if she comes to him? What are you going to do? It’s going to break your heart”

 

(As if it hasn’t already)

 

“Jungkook, I-“

 

 

He’s surprised (and Jungkook is horrified) when he chokes up and the tears spill, hot and sticky against his warm cheeks. Jungkook erupts into a chorus of _no no no no no,_ and hesitates for a second before pulling Jimin into a tight, warm embrace. Jimin gives himself willingly to Jungkook’s warm chest, feeling the way his arm muscles tighten around his back. They stay like that for what seems like an eternity, Jimin sobbing into the soft fabric of Jungkook’s t-shirt and Jungkook stroking his hair awkwardly but steadily, mutterings of _don’t cry_ and _I’m sorry_ escaping his mouth.

 

 

“I’m sorry”

 

“No I am”

 

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just- I’m so worried about you. We both are.”

 

“I know. I’m trying to work things out. Just- just give me a little more time.”

 

“You know you can come to ours whenever you need?”

 

 

 

The phrase is familiar, but his answer will never change. Taehyung may be pain, but without Taehyung- he is _nothing._

 

 

 

When he crawls into bed a few minutes later he finds an obtrusion (but not an unwelcome one) nestled between his pillows. Taehyung has grown to be gangly and tall and takes up more space then he ought to. Jimin had tentatively suggested a queen-sized bed all those years ago (to conserve money, nothing else, _nothing else_ ) but Taehyung had insisted on single beds. A redundant cost now since most nights he crawls into Jimin’s bed to crush him between his body and the wall, refusing to leave despite Jimin’s half-hearted protest.

 

He sighs and slugs into his bed, too tired for argument. Fucking Taehyung. The lovely little bitch. He flinches when Taehyung rolls over quite suddenly and he flounders for a second, the sudden shift rolling him off the edge of the mattress. Taehyung catches him by placing a wide palm firmly on the small of his back and pulling him back in. In the dark his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. Especially when Taehyung curls his fingers into a fist, bunching Jimin’s shirt into it.

 

“You crying?”

 

He’s drunk. He smells sickeningly sweet, of Kahlua and Jack on ice. But there is unmistakably caring in his voice and Jimin can’t find it in his heart to tell him to shut up and go back to sleep.

 

“How can you tell?”

 

“Your breathing. Comes out snuffly after a cry”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You wanna talk about it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay. Good night.”

 

“Good night”

 

And just like that, his body slackens and he falls away. The pace of his breathing changes and Jimin realizes that Taehyung had probably been waiting exhausted and drunk, for Jimin to return to the room before he slept. He loves him. He really loves Taehyung. Even if it means nothing to Taehyung, the touches, the hushed whispers, the shared years, it meant _everything_ to him.

 

All the hurt had been worth it. Because it was all for the sake of Taehyung.

 

 

\--

 

When Jimin returns home after a long shift down-trodden and exhausted, he’s greeted by a nervous Taehyung, freshly showered. It’s uncommon for Taehyung to be home this early, and even more uncommon for him to be going out at 5PM. He doesn’t think much of it until he catches Taehyung styling his hair in their bathroom mirror, employing hair gel to sweep back his already-immaculate locks.

 

The bad feeling settles in his gut like sour wine. When Taehyung disappears into the closet for half an hour to decide on an outfit, the bad feeling intensifies until it almost overwhelms him, threatening to drown him entirely.

 

“How do I look?”

 

Jimin readies himself for how _amazing_ Taehyung looks when he really tries, but he could never be ready for how magnificent he looks now. His collarbones are bared, enough to be provocative but not in an obvious fashion. His cream-colored shorts almost match his hair and he is wearing a few, simple rings. Understated elegance at its finest. He is a vision to behold.

 

Jimin tries to cough up the right words. He has several practiced phrases he uses for such occasions but they escape him in his time of need.

 

“You look so handsome Tae. Hope you have a good time”

 

Cue heartbreak.

 

 

So when Taehyung leaves after nervously assuring that this girl might really be _it,_ Jimin reaches for his mobile and punches in the number, because he needs this or he won’t sleep tonight.

 

\--

 

 

It’s been a little while but Namjoon is still steady with his hands and desperate to please. Jimin drags him into the kiss before they even greet one another at the door. It's less lips more tongue, but Namjoon responds accordingly. He knows how it gets. He knows how it feels, like the loneliness and ache could staple you to the darkness and any distraction is welcome.

 

“Please Namjoon- I-”

 

“Shhh, Jiminnie don’t rush-“

 

But Jimin yanks Namjoon down onto the sofa, on top of him. Their hips slot together and he ruts up, desperate for some sort of friction. He whines, high-pitched and hoarse at the contact, thrilled by the half-hard heat in Namjoon’s loose shorts. He doesn’t hesitate to run his hand down Namjoon’s abdomen, dip his hands into his boxers. He grips his erection tightly, earning a drawn out gasp from the elder struggling out of his shirt while he hastily unclothes Jimin.

 

He kneads his own cock a few times for good measure, making sure Namjoon is fully hard before running his thumb carefully across the slit, reaching his left hand to stroke up and down the length.

 

Namjoon looks good like this, panting and surprised by the speed of things, but so _ready_ for the pleasure. Jimin tries not to imagine the other things. Like how Namjoon must have kissed Jin in bed, and how badly he must’ve loved the sight of him, fucked out and lying ready before him.

 

(And fuck, the way Taehyung’s skin looks in the moonlight. How he must sound with somebody wrapped around his cock. He tries not to let his mind wonder.)

 

Just now, it’s the two of them. Two awfully lost, sad people trying their hardest to bring warmth to one another’s beds.

 

“Namjoon, fuck me like you mean it.” He pants.

“Like you’ve never done before.”

 

And he watches as the air shifts between them and Namjoon growls, slamming Jimin down with his two hands, scissoring two fingers into him. Jimin cries out, stomach tensing as Namjoon prods at his prostate while dipping down to lick at the tip of his leaking cock.

 

Minutes later, Jimin is _begging_ for it, to be filled and fucked until he forgets his own name and Namjoon is too happy to comply.

 

And when he’s left with bruises and a shaky hip, Namjoon bathes him and carries him to bed like a child. But even after Namjoon has fallen asleep, his shoulders heaving softly under the nightlight, Jimin can’t stop looking over to Taehyung’s bed against the far wall, feeling the emptiness like a missing limb and hoping, dreaming that Taehyung will come home soon.

 

 

\--

 

“Shit, you gotta go gotta go”

 

“Fuck fuck fuck”

 

The two have overslept and Taehyung has already sent his good morning text meaning he’ll be home any second, he may even be pattering up the stairwell as they speak. The result is a commotion, a frantic search for shorts, t-shirts, articles of clothing scattered throughout the apartment like the aftermath of some storm. Jimin can’t even bring himself to feel bad as he hurls Namjoon out of the apartment with a promise to deliver his bag and phone charger on a later date.

 

Sure enough Taehyung returns home not ten minutes after. He looks slightly disheveled but as good as anyone can look after a long night out. He regards Jimin with faint curiosity, the untucked shirt, the messy hair. His face sets in an indescribable expression. But he doesn’t make any comments.

 

“Jimin-ah. Guess who found themselves a girlfriend?”

 

And so it goes.

 

 

 

 

The enormity of the task is daunting. Pretending he’s happy for Taehyung, acting like it doesn’t matter when he’s breaking inside. It only gets worse with time; the absent nights, the unanswered texts, the sound of Taehyung laughing down the phone to her. But he never brings her home. Perhaps out of respect for Jimin, but they’re never even introduced. It’s interesting like that. Their lives are so intimately melded, but they are still able to keep secrets.

 

He spends too much time with Namjoon. Always doing the same thing. Crying over the same things.

 

 

 

\--

 

Despite everything, Taehyung still asks and Jimin still agrees to their usual summer vacation, a two week trip back to either one of their home towns. This year they return to Taehyung’s grandparent’s house, to strawberry fields and lush foliage.

 

They take the bus, because hey, money is tight. It’s sweltering hot in the rickety vehicle and their thighs are pressed together on the dusty bus seat. The only other occupant inside the bus is an old woman, her white hair pulled up into a neat bun. She fans herself with precise, slow motions. The marking of her soulmate’s name is on the back of her neck but an ugly scar tears across it, concealing the Hangul. Jimin wonders if she had maimed herself or it had been done to her, and he can't be sure if he would like to know the answer.

 

 

“Jimin-ah, it’s hot”

 

Taehyung is pretty as ever, eyes thin from the heat and panting quietly. He glows a dark orange in the interior of the dusty bus. Sweat shines above those distractingly plump lips.

 

“Tae you make it hotter by saying that”

 

“Are you mad at me?”

 

 

Time stops. It twists into something stagnant and Jimin is lost in the hold of Taehyung’s amber gaze.

 

 

“I could never”

 

 

His heart slips out before his mind can stop him, but Taehyung is happy enough. He shifts impossibly closer and cups his larger palm over Jimin’s small, ringed hand. He fiddles with the knuckles and presses into Jimin’s wrist.

 

“Whatever it is, I hope you get through it.”

 

Ah, but this is paradoxical. Because the only way to cure himself is to get through Taehyung, but Taehyung won’t yield, won’t yield. And Jimin is hopelessly stuck on him.

 

\--

 

“Minnie”

 

Taehyung’s grandmother greets him like a long-lost son and Taehyung makes a sound of indignation at the back of his throat. She’s a strong woman, weathered and old. She’s a venerable mistress, and runs the farm with more finesse than any man could. Jimin inhales her scent as he’s pulled in for a hug, the scent of summer and creek water and something else sweet.

 

 

“Ah Taehyung. And you’re here too”

 

 

There’s laughter at her careless tone, but genuine love in the way she pats his cheek, stroking his hair up to see his face clearer. She had raised him for many years before he was forced away by his father, and she was more a mother to Taehyung than anyone ever was.

 

At night they sleep in the massive guest room, on scratchy tatami mats and fluffy down. They hang a mosquito net over themselves and listen to the crickets chirp in the garden. The city is loud but the country is deafening. The rustling, the _tweep tweep_ of some unnamable insect, and the gentle breeze gusting through the fields makes it difficult to sleep. But all it takes is the way Taehyung stares at the moon with dark eyes opened wide to lull him into a sleep, deeper and better than any he’s had in the past few months.

 

 

 

 

 

They Skype call Jungkook and Yoongi most mornings and then help Taehyung’s grandmother with housekeeping tasks. Often, they harvest strawberries. Taehyung loses weight in a healthy way, and Jimin falls harder in love with the sun-kissed boy laughing at him with crimson hands.

After lunch, Jimin writes and Taehyung asks to read, only to be refused. They go on strolls, to the river or the mountains, kicking up stray stones from the rough dirt path weaving between endless rice fields. They’ve been here several times before. They revisit the same places, the cedar trees and the hidden creek.

 

It really feels like they’re the only people in the world. There’s the sun, the blinding green and Taehyung. Jimin couldn’t be happier.

 

 

 

\-- 

 

 

 

One day, towards the end of their holiday they climb a mountain. By accident, mostly. Taehyung insists that the summit is close but it’s _not,_ and it turns out to be an hour long trek leaving them heaving, leg muscles screaming from overuse.

 

But it’s all worth it.

 

They end up in a small field, white flowers blowing like feathers in the wind. The sun is so bright and the sky seems close, like they can touch it if only they reach out a hand. From high up they can see the way the fields snake through the mountains like a moss-green river, and they can faintly make out the train weaving through like a serpent. Taehyung laughs, a high sound of jubilation and falls onto his back into the endless flowers.

Jimin feels a strange sense of Déjà vu, an ache in his heart which makes him clutch at his chest gently. It’s not an unpleasant feeling-more wistful. Like he’s missing something that used to be his.

 

“Minnie come lie with me”

 

And so he does. It’s warm and dry down there on the ground and he feels utterly cleansed, and at peace.

 

“Do you remember? We came here when we were kids.”

 

“Did we?”

 

“How can you not remember?”

 

He misses the heavy change in tone, like a cloud covering the sun. He’s too focused on closing his eyes and soaking up the sun to realize when Taehyung shifts, rolling over to rest on top of him.

His eyes snap open.

 

_Oh._

Taehyung seems very solid and real like this, breathing gently against Jimin with his elbow propping him up so their noses almost touch. He has come to rest between Jimin’s legs, their crotches near-aligned and Jimin prays desperately that his boner won’t make a guest appearance at the worst possible timing. He can feel the way Taehyung’s diaphragm expands slightly when he moves and there is _nothing_ platonic about this positioning.

 

“Tae-“

 

His words are stolen from his mouth by Taehyung’s thumb, which swipes carefully across his lower lip.

Jimin widens his eyes.

 

Taehyung’s hand ventures to cup Jimin’s face in one of the most intimate, tender actions of affection he’s ever displayed.

 

“Tae, what are you doing”

 

Taehyung freezes, as if awaking from a trance. His hand is trembling as badly as Jimin’s voice.

 

“Tae, get off of me”

 

It takes every part of him to say those words, and he waits until Taehyung silently removes himself and disappears with a rustle in to the greenery before he shatters.

 

 

When he returns home two hours later, Taehyung is nowhere to be seen. He locks himself in the bathroom and masturbates to the memory of Taehyung’s eyes, dark and hungry looking into his. He cleans himself off and cries, standing beneath the shower to rinse himself of the disappointment, the confusion.

When Taehyung slips into the room past midnight he pretends not to hear, and when Taehyung lets out a small noise which forebodes tears, he pretends to sleep.

 

\--

 

“Hoseokie is coming over tonight, for dinner”

 

The line is delivered cautiously, almost as an ice-breaker. Taehyung hasn’t spoken to Jimin in a while and Jimin has been too afraid. Taehyung’s grandmother can sense that something is off and she’s cast a few lines of help which neither of them have bothered to take.

Hoseok. Taehyung’s older cousin had posed as a sort of brother-figure for Jimin in their youth, helping him learn the ropes of farming, introducing the country-side to him. He was a watermelon farmer, strong and steady in his ways.

 

Jimin looked forward to seeing him. There wasn’t much else to look forward too, with Taehyung silent like this.

 

 

Hoseok arrives with watermelons and a radiant smile. His wife is a pretty little thing, timid but clever. His child is the most boisterous, bouncing two-year old Jimin has ever seen. Hoseok lifts Jimin up into the air and spins him around as if he’s still the same little boy, innocent and without a care in the world. In the corner of his spinning periphery Jimin can see Taehyung laughing, head thrown back. He feels secretly relieved.

 

They drink and eat heartily, the kitchen bustling with life. Taehyung and Jimin skirt around one another but try their hardest to be accommodating and natural in front of their guests. Taehyung softens in front of children, and he seems enamoured by Hoseok’s little family. He doesn't stop laughing. Jimin wonders if one day it’ll be him, bouncing his child on his knee and kissing his wife quickly between stories of family fishing trips and daycare.

 

Later on, when the night is still young and Taehyung convinces Hoseok’s wife to join him and his grandmother in a game of Mahjong, Jimin sits on the porch alone beer turning warm in his clenched hand. He can’t stop thinking about Taehyung having a family in the future, discovering his soul mate and having kids- where will Jimin fit into that equation?

 

“Minnie”

 

“Hobi-hyung”

 

Hoseok has grown older. He carries himself like a man, a _father._ At only two years older than Jimin he has it sorted out; the job, the family, the mortgage. It’s perhaps not the life he imagined, but it’s a good life regardless.

 

 

“How are things?”

 

“Not, too great actually.”

 

He was always honest with Hobi. He had a way of seeing through lies like water.

 

 

“I see Taehyung is still hung up on the whole soulmate thing.”

 

Jimin chuckles, a tired sound.

 

“Yeah he is. He’s been dating this girl for about two months. He thinks she’s the one. Really excited about it.”

 

“But are you?”

 

He feels tiny under Hoseok’s tense gaze and he can’t help but shake his head. They sip in silence for some time, listening to the ongoing sounds of festivities and laughter from within the house. There are no lights in the fields, only pure black. It’s like looking out to the ocean.

 

“You turn nineteen in a month, don’t you?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Jimin, I meant to tell you this a while ago, when I heard you moved in with Taehyung. The soulmate thing, it’s important but not the most important thing.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“My soulmate is this chick called Eunbi.”

 

He points at his ankle. Surely enough, the name is etched small and obscure on his calf. It’s not his wife’s name. He gestures towards the living room with his beer bottle before taking another swig.

 

“I met her in high school. I was so convinced she was my soulmate- so convinced that when we found out about the kid, we decided to keep it. And then come my 19th birthday. And shit, she’s not my soulmate. And when she turns nineteen, no name. She has no soulmate. Either that, or he’s dead.”

 

“Aren’t you curious?”

 

It’s blurted out, and Jimin curses himself for being insensitive. Hoseok must have tied himself into knots over his predicament. He must have hated himself, questioned himself, questioned _her,_ and he had finally come to this conclusion.

 

“No. I’m not even going to search for my soulmate. I don’t care. Mi-na, she’s the one for me. She makes me happy and we make it work. And she’s such a brilliant mother. My family makes me the happiest man in the world.”

 

She turns back now, eyeing the two from her place by the table as if reaffirming that Hoseok is still there. He smiles and gives a small wave and she returns it, face breaking into a grin.

 

“I’m going to get the name lasered off after the harvest. My soulmate might be out there, but I don’t need her. I need my wife.”

 

 

Mi-na is beckoning now, patting the seat next to her and motioning at Hobi. He complies, returning the house after giving Jimin a reassuring squeeze on the arm. Jimin watches as he picks up his son, letting him climb up his body and onto his shoulders. Laughter chimes through the air. Jimin wishes for a love as steadfast and certain as Hoseok’s. Even if fate does happen to tug Hoseok and his soulmate together one day, he’s positive that Hoseok will battle against the current to return to her. In the same way that even after Jimin’s soulmate is revealed, he will continue to love, love, love Taehyung with every part of him; even the part that belongs with somebody else.

 

 

 

 

\--

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

Autumn has quickened its steps towards Busan, and Taehyung and Jimin still aren’t talking too much. It’s past the point of aggression and more about the general awkwardness surrounding the entire incident. They try to make amends but fall short. Taehyung is too quiet and Jimin is too nervous.

 

Yoongi senses the rift between the two and tries to rope them back together, to no avail. There’s a lot of uncomfortable karaoke nights and dinner dates with one-sided conversations. Jungkook is the first to cave in, and after that, they meet Taehyung and Jimin separately in their own time. Jimin feels bad for pulling them into their childish quarrel- but there’s an inherent bitterness when he sees Taehyung returns from the bowling alley without a _hello_ or even _what have you been up to?_

 

So he chooses to turn a blind eye, in order to not be blind-sided by Taehyung.

 

As usual, it fucking hurts.

 

 

So naturally, he rings Namjoon. And rings Namjoon, and rings Namjoon. They had made so many rules; no drinking, no staying over, no kissing, none of that good fluffy shit reserved for lovers and people who haven’t made mistakes. And Jimin breaks them all.

 

He stays for days on end in Namjoon’s king-sized bed, kisses him silly, drinks two standards shy of alcohol poisoning. He ends most nights with his head shoved into a pillow, screaming as Namjoon pounds into him from behind like there’s no tomorrow. He wants Namjoon to abuse him, use him, make him feel as shit as he really is. And it frustrates him when Namjoon treats him with kindness, asking him what he wants to eat for dinner.

 

Oddly, he feels less alone in Namjoon’s house despite being faced by a space larger and emptier than his own apartment. He spends his spare time anchored to Seokjin’s writing desk, putting everything into words. It’s shit. Shit writing. Shit content. Shit delivery. He laughs at himself and everything he’s lost; it’s only now that he realizes he wasn’t writing about Taehyung, he was writing because of Taehyung.

 

He proof-reads the entire thing in a three-hour editing frenzy and sends it to his publisher titled _You fuck me up_. They may enjoy the crudeness of his writing and the terrible dry humor. But it’s more likely that they’ll be so horrified by what they’ve read that he’ll be pulled from publishing deals, forgotten and left behind like every other amateur writer struggling for their place in this world.

 

Which is fine, by him.

His self-deprecating habits have become so natural to him, he barely bats an eyelid.

 

 

\--

 

Later on he realizes blurrily that his birthday is tomorrow and he hasn’t seen Taehyung in five days. He last watched Taehyung’s coattail flicker out of the door on Tuesday, his words echoing empty in the deserted apartment. He had taken his clothes and closed the door on the dead space.

 

“It’s your birthday tomorrow”

 

He blinks up at Namjoon. He’s drunk too much again and he won’t fuck him like this; he’s too much the gentleman.

 

 

“Do you want to go out somewhere? Is there something you want?”

 

“Joonie, I really think you’ve done enough already.”

 

“It’s your coming of age. I care, Minnie.”

 

 

He wishes he could fall in love with Namjoon instead, and Namjoon could forget Seokjin. Impossible, of course. They are who they are, incurably so. Namjoon gives him a gentle feeling, precious and good. Namjoon heals. Every disgusting thought and melancholy moment falls into him like a bottomless well and he just takes it.

 

Taehyung, though. Taehyung is so breathtakingly extraordinary, and he can feel his lungs igniting when Taehyung speaks, Taehyung laughs, when Taehyung is. There is a fine line between love and comfort, and he knows he will endlessly choose the truth.

 

He pushes it to one side of his mind and focuses back on Namjoon and the way he looks at Jimin kindly under the dimmed lights. He traces his finger across his clavicle like it's a railroad and he’s trying to find the final destination.

 

“Actually, there’s one thing you can do for me”

 

“What?”

 

“Can we sleep together? Not sex, just like, cuddling?”

 

“Of course”

 

So they settle to sleep, Jimin’s back pressed flush against Namjoon’s chest, their breathing quietly in unison. The alarm clock blares an angry red, reading 10:36PM. Namjoon is so warm and heavy behind him, nothing else seems real but his heartbeat and the way his forehead rubs gently against the bare skin of Jimin’s back. He chokes up on the memory of the exact same feeling shared with Taehyung back in summer. It feels centuries ago and he misses him. Namjoon gropes for his hand in the darkness and fiddles with the digits for a second before intertwining their fingers. He grasps tightly, pulling their joined hands up to Jimin’s chest. Something warm smears across the back of his neck and Jimin twitches. The sensation is followed by a wet sob, barely muffled by the thick bedsheets.

 

Jimin clutches harder.

 

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong because he already knows, and he’s not the person Namjoon needs right now.

 

He hears Namjoon whimper somewhere close by.

“Jinnie”

 

He has that same dream, where there is darkness and his own voice telling Taehyung to _get off_ and _what are you doing?_

 

He doesn’t understand any better.

 

 

 

\--

 

When Jimin wakes up on the 13th of October, he doesn’t feel any different. A bit sore from sleeping with Namjoon’s arm crooked beneath his right ear and sticky from tears, but well-rested. The time reads 8:12.

 

“Joon get up, you have work in-“

 

Namjoon frightens him for a moment with how wide his eyes are and how still he is. Jimin hadn’t even realized he was awake until this moment. He is looking up at Jimin, a strange mix of shock and horror playing across his thin face.

“What- what’s wrong Joon?”

 

“Minnie”

 

His voice is gruff, that morning sound Jimin loves on Taehyung.

 

“Go to the bathroom. Check your back in the mirror”

 

He doesn’t need telling twice. Because he knows, even before he crashes out of bed to skid across the bedroom floor, and he knows as he knocks furniture askew in his rush to reach the mirror. He already knows as he turns to face his back against the mirror and he begins to scream. The sound rings keening off the high ceilings and pale walls, and he takes a breath before he keeps going, yelling and yelling at everything, himself included.

 

The name Kim Taehyung curls bold and clear across his back.

 

 

\--

 

“Take me home”

 

“Jimin-“

 

“Please, take me home now.”

 

He’s been crying for what seems like hours, crying, sleeping, crying some more. He’s ignored the birthday messages and his phone displays an impressive fifteen missed calls from Jungkook and Yoongi, respectively.

 

He is so fucking upset, he can barely breathe. He needs to go home to Taehyung.

Namjoon nods mutely before looping a finger around his car keys.

 

 

He arrives home in his pajamas, flinging his apartment door open with a crash. Namjoon follows him with his belongings, stepping cautiously into the room. Jimin doesn’t realise until too late that he’s broken the final rule; _check where Taehyung is before bringing Namjoon home._

 

 

And Taehyung is sitting in the darkness, eerily still. Jimin could punch himself, he’s been so careless. He can see the outline of his sun-yellow hair and the whites of his eyes as they widen in shock and hurt.

 

Behind him, the door slams. He hears Namjoon sprint down the stairs, Jimin’s luggage thrown on to the ground like garbage.

 

He can fix that later.

But can he fix this now?

 

“Who is that?” Taehyung whispers.

“Is that who you’ve been fucking?”

 

The hurt in his voice stands out like a thorn in silk. How could he know. He had been so _careful_. But then again, they had never hidden things from one another.

 

“I was waiting for you to come home”

 

The tears break through and Taehyung buries his face in his hands, ugly sobbing filling his palms. Jimin doesn’t move. He caused this. He caused this pain, and his Taehyung, his _soulmate_ is crying like his heart is being ripped out and he’s just standing there.

Taehyung stands up abruptly and pushes past Jimin, stopping only to grab his wallet and coat. In his wake, there is the scent of tears and cold emptiness, again.

 

 

Jimin turns on the lights.

 

 

On the tabletop is a squashed thing, and it takes some time to affirm that it is a cake. _Happy 19th Jimin_ is scrawled messily across it, the icing cracked and missing bits and pieces. Taehyung, who can’t cook. Taehyung, who struggles to crack an egg and operate a microwave. He had cooked him a cake, and waited for him to come home.

There is a wrapped present on the table and with trembling hands, Jimin reaches for it. He slits the paper to reveal a sleek white box- a laptop. An expensive one too, an upgrade from the cheap shitty thing he has now, the one with the keypad which doesn’t work and overheats in seventeen minutes flat. A sticky note on the underside of the machine reveals the following from Taehyung;

 

 

_For your writing._

_I love you._

_Tae_

 

 

 

 

If Jimin has let love hurt him before tonight, it is nothing compared to the despair he feels now, texting Taehyung, calling desperately. Taehyung is silent on the line. The bleep of the answering machine is high-pitched and mocking and Jimin can’t even bare to touch the cake or his present.

 

If regret could kill, he’d be six foot under.

 

 

\--

 

 

“Where the fuck is he!?”

 

Jimin is black-out drunk and thudding his fists against the table like some child. Three weeks, no Taehyung. He knows he’s been in there, objects don’t move by themselves and somebody is doing the laundry. But he can’t catch him in the act. It’s like living with an elf; strangely duty-oriented and offensively adept at concealing his tracks.

Hats off to Taehyung, he’s hasn’t seen as much as his pinky finger.

 

 

“So what you are saying to me”

 

They turn their attention to Yoongi. The man means business when he speaks.

 

 

“Is that you think Taehyung has been co-inhabiting your room since your birthday, and yet you haven’t seen him a single time? Isn’t there something inherently fucked up about that?”

 

“Are you doubting me?”

 

“No it’s just- Jimin, are you alright”

 

 

He’s not. He’s really fucking not. He keeps dreaming that same dream, and he can hear Taehyung’s whispers in the darkness. He’s smoking too much hash and drinking too much liquor and it plays with his mind. Sometimes he can see Taehyung sitting with his ankles crossed on the floorboards. If he tries hard enough, Taehyung even turns and flicks those eyes towards him and laughs.

And then he comes down and his lips are purple in the freezing apartment and there is no Taehyung.

 

Wow.

 

 

“He’ll come home.”

 

Jimin wants to holler, _how do you know that!?_. He hates the two for their perfect life, their perfect apartment and their perfect relationship. It seems unfair that people have such lovely, good things in their life but love has winded him and he feels giddy with hurt.

 

“Jimin, he’ll come home.”

 

 

\--

 

When the doorbell rings, fuck, he thinks for a moment that Taehyung has come home. He unbolts the door in a hurry, slamming his forefinger painfully in the process. With tears in his eyes and tongue between his teeth he flings the door open to reveal-

 

A lady.

 

An unfamiliar lady.

 

A pretty, unfamiliar lady.

 

 

“I think you may have the wrong number”

 

Her lovely face clenches with confusion. Her makeup is so pleasantly symmetrical, it could be art. Taehyung would love it. He has a penchant for pretty things; nice colors and cool metallics on heavy eyelids.

 

“Number 306?”

 

“Oh. Yeah.”

 

Upon ascertaining that she is indeed at the right room, Jimin’s mind short-circuits and begins running circles around itself. The awful, terrible possibility that she may be here for Taehyung dawns on him.

 

“Taehyung- isn’t here” he vocalizes and he knows the fear tenses his voice in an obvious manner.

 

Now she looks practically irate.

 

“Jimin-ssi, I’m in the right place and I’m not here for Taehyung. My name is Jisoo and I am your editor. You haven’t been responding to any of my emails, so I’ve been forced to travel from Seoul to speak with you.”

 

And without further ado, she grabs him by the collar (surprising strength for such a little lady) and hurls him into his apartment, slamming the door behind them.

 

 

\--

 

He feels little like this, like a kid caught stealing. He’s even sitting like a damn child, knees together and hands placed on his lap the way they taught him in primary. Jisoo takes the wooden chair, crossing her thin legs carelessly with her stilettos brushing the table leg. She lights a cigarette, the dirty action something beautiful with her grace. She doesn’t bother to offer him one or ask his permission, and Jimin is slightly scandalized by her brazen attitude.

 

City folks.

 

“I read your book”

 

What book?

He swallows his words.

 

“ _You fuck me up_ is quite the whimsical title. We may have to tweak it to make it marketable. But the premise was quite lovely.”

 

It clicks. That piece of trash he’d written with a broken heart at Seokjin’s writing desk. He had opened and reopened the document on his laptop countless times before deleting the entire thing two nights ago.

 

He suddenly feels embarrassed that this prissy lady with nice teeth and a polished accent has read something he poured his heart in to.

 

“It was excellent”

 

He blinks.

 

“It’s a very beautifully written piece. It feels incomplete in some places, but I think in some ways that perfects it. You’re a talented writer.”

 

And she breaks out in to a smile, so unnatural on her face that it seems neurotic but it’s a smile nonetheless. Ash drops on to her pencil skirt and she brushes it to the ground. He misses the opportunity to say thankyou, so he leaves it.

 

“We want to publish it”

 

“You cannot be serious”

 

“Jimin-ssi, this book has such outstanding potential. Your first work pales in comparison.”

 

“I- thankyou.”

 

He reprimands himself for his negativity. Perhaps it truly is wonderful in her eyes. Maybe it resonates with her in ways he can’t understand.

 

 

“You live here with your girlfriend?”

 

She eyes the kitchen counter and the photo frames on the wall. It must look lived-in to her, an accumulation of three years cluttered in to this tiny space. If only she knew.

 

“Soulmate” Jimin retorts firmly.

“Male, soulmate”

 

 

“Right”

The laugh that follows it is more genuine than any sound she’s uttered so far. She looks distinctly more comfortable now with the situation, which is strange. He doesn't really get her. He only really gets Taehyung, if anyone.

 

“What’s it like to fall in love?”

The simple beauty of the question is startling. This question at the very least, warrants an answer.

 

“It was just a day like any other day. He’s in the kitchen drinking coffee, and he’s crying because he failed the entrance exam for his university of choice. And everything about the moment was so gritty and raw, I really felt every part of his pain. And I was crying too. Because I cared so much, and it felt like he was more a part of me than I was.”

 

 

She smokes some more, lipstick staining the end of her cigarette. Jimin wonders what she’s doing here. If she’ll ever cut to the chase, or they’ll sit here forever while she smokes an endless chain of cigarettes, wondering what love is.

 

“We would like you to move closer to Seoul. To Gyeonggi-do, to be exact. We’d like to put you out there as a writer, per se. We could get you into writing for particular magazines, or set you up as a full time writer. It’s just all a little too difficult to organize from Busan.”

 

And just like that, leaving Taehyung becomes the easiest task in the world.

 

 

\--

After she leaves, heels punching staccato against the concrete ground of the stairwell, Jimin airs out the room and reevaluates everything that just happened. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend she never came; that the lingering odor of cigarette smoke is a figment of his imagination, and he can’t escape this place and Taehyung is his only home.

 

He lies in his bed, counting his heartbeat and breathing the faint scent of Taehyung, who must have slept here three nights ago when he stayed at Namjoon’s.

 

 

The door creaks open slowly.

 

He can tell Taehyung from his breathing, but pretends to be fast asleep. He doesn’t have the energy to roll over and do whatever he has to do with him right now.

 

His soulmate mark twinges. He fears that Taehyung will spot it through the sheer white fabric of his t-shirt, but he turns and goes.

 

The front door closes, and that’s the end of that.

 

 

\--

 

When Christmas rolls around, Jimin makes a crass joke to Jungkook that Taehyung should probably start paying a third of their rent, since he lives full-time at Yoongi’s apartment now. He almost gets popped in the jaw for it, but it’s the truth.

 

They aren’t even texting. He’s left on read every time and it gets tiring.

 

So he stops.

 

 

He goes to Namjoon’s instead, wrapped present peeking out from beneath his coat, face shoved in the folds of his scarf.

 

The spare key is worn with use now, and he slots it in easily to open the front door.

 

The apartment is dark, which is bizarre. Namjoon can’t live with the lights out. He’s slightly OCD in the way that he walks around his house, switching every lamp, every nightlight, every light on to evade the emptiness. He can only sleep with another body next to his.

 

“Joonie?”

 

His voice disappears in to the dark corridor. Light pulls through a crack in the curtains.

 

Namjoon isn’t in the living room. Nor the dining room.

Jimin is panicking now. He sprints to the bathroom, fearing the worst. It is deserted and he swallows in relief. It wouldn’t be beyond him, taking his own life. A human can only suffer so much heartbreak. (Exactly five years since Seokjin left him. Five long, long years. An infinity without the love of your life)

 

He’s in the study. Seated at Seokjin’s writing desk, he stares at something in his hands. A cigarette butt lays dying in a glass ashtray, the rising smoke the only movement in the room.

 

“Joonie”

 

 

Jimin walks up to him slowly, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder. When he gets like this, he becomes messy and lost. It’s his role to guide him back.

 

 

“He’s getting married”

 

 

The lack of tears in his voice is unnerving. There’s nothing there. Nothing but cruel resignation.

 

 

“He sent me a wedding invite. A fucking wedding invite. Can you even imagine? Why? Why on earth would he do that? I was searching for him. I was looking for him. Every day, I looked for him. I fucking lost him and I went out to look for him”

 

He looks back and Jimin sees himself in those ruined eyes. He must look just the same.

 

 

“Was I wrong to fall in love, Minnie?”

 

“No.” he whispers. It can’t be.

 

“I’m going to him. I’m gonna go get him. I can’t keep living like this.”

 

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon packing Namjoon’s few belongings in to a suitcase and organizing accommodation in Seoul. He does all the talking and contacting, Namjoon sleeps. He looks like a child, eyelashes fluttering as he chases some wild dream in his mind.

He twitches when Jimin places a hand on his neck, thumbing gently at his jaw. He curls in to the touch.

 

The present lies unwrapped on the floor where Namjoon had flicked through the contents hours ago. He had wanted Namjoon to be the first one to read it, the beautifully bound and pressed pages with his own broken writing stamped across the margins. The second copy sits on his bed at home, where he had shucked it to the side after receiving it in the mail.

 

He might read it when he gets home. And then, he can pack too. He can leave behind the apartment where it all began, and make it into the place it all ends, as well.

 

 

He sighs. It’s snowing outside. The world falls quiet.

He misses Taehyung.

 

 

\--

 

With Namjoon gone, he feels like an empty vessel. He can’t even write, but for once, he doesn’t feel the need to. He just needs to get away.

 

He vacuum packs his clothing and calls his parents. He makes it obvious that he’s leaving. It’s partially a provocation, a challenge to see if Taehyung will take the bait and break his stony silence.

 

He doesn’t. It makes Jimin bold.

 

At one point he’s packing his passport away into his travel bag and slinging his suitcase across the hallway to rest by the door. His shoes are packed into cardboard boxes. He hasn’t booked tickets yet, but he’s finally responded to Jisoo’s incessant phone calls.

 

Things are flowing into place at an alarming speed.  
Impossible that Taehyung hasn’t noticed at this point.

 

Unless of course, he literally hasn’t come home at all. Perhaps. He’s effectively moved out at this point, and apart from one awkward encounter at the dining table three weeks ago, they haven’t even seen one another eye to eye.

 

Soulmate turned stranger. The irony.

Today will be no different.

 

 

After putting his novels into a plastic box to be shipped to his parent’s house, he decides on a short break. He cooks some god awful stir-fry Taehyung invented that could be thrown over cold rice and fills him up in an instance. He has to give it to him, the bastard was innovative.

Halfway through preparations, he realizes he’s steamed a copious amount of rice. He stills cooks for two. Old habits die hard.

He’s chopping Bok choi into palatable pieces when the door opens. He doesn’t even realize; he’s so focused on getting the segments just right. A shadow falls across the chopping board and his heart stops.

 

To describe Taehyung as he looks now would be impossible for Jimin, and he’s a writer. His mind is constantly filled with words, sentences, potential paragraphs. He writes on buses, in the shower, whenever the moment comes to him, and it comes often.

 

 

But right now, he has no words.

 

 

Taehyung, with his wide, almond-shaped eyes had killed him from the very start. Paired with a fresh haircut and snowflakes in his short fringe, Jimin is reduced to nothing. He is perfect. His skin, his lips, even the way his eyebrows knit together as he searches for words. They haven’t been this close for what seems like years. Two people who use to share a bed together.

 

In short, he looks ethereal.

 

 

“Where are you going?”

 

He thinks it’s him whose spoken, but it’s Taehyung. His voice sends Jimin aching.

 

“Nowhere”

 

“Bullshit. What have you been packing for?”

 

“And where have you been so late at night?”

 

“Why have you been running from me?”

 

“Where have you been staying?”

 

 

They’re throwing questions like sharp stones, but nobody is answering. It seemed so easy to move away when he was alone, putting everything material into cardboard and taping it up, but the emotions and the heavier things he hadn’t dealt with. He’ll deal with them now.

 

“Taehyung, I’m moving out. I don’t want to fucking be here anymore, okay?”

 

It comes out wrong. But once spat out, there’s nothing he can do to take them back. So he keeps going.

 

“And don’t you dare fucking stop me. I’ve been through enough shit these last few months and you haven't helped in the slightest. You don’t even come home. That is just so fucking immature, Tae. Fuck you. Fuck. And fuck this. Who are you to tell me not to leave? What the fuck do you think you are?”

 

(Everything, baby)

 

Taehyung let’s out a small sound.

“Your soulmate”

 

 

What.

What.

How could he know. How could he know. Only Namjoon had known. Taehyung wasn’t supposed to ever find out. He was supposed to live without Jimin. Find his soulmate. Have kids. House by the beach. Flowers in the garden.

 

 

“A while ago when I was coming back to the apartment, I met this chick in the stairwell. Jisoo, whatever. She greeted me and asked me if I was Jimin-ssi’s soulmate.”

 

There aren’t tears yet, but they’ll come shortly.

 

“How could you tell her? And not even tell me?”

 

He rounds the table and Jimin backs away, painfully aware of the mark on his back hidden from sight but etched on his body for all eternity. He’ll be buried with Kim Taehyung’s name on his skin.

His lower back bumps against the kitchen counter. Taehyung is so close he’s breathing in the scent of him. It’s soft and good, and so, so familiar. His tears are transparent and trace smooth marks down his unblemished skin. He is so lovely, Jimin could cry just from the sight of it.

 

“You write, don’t you? I always had an inkling but you left a copy of your book on your bed. So I was sure. Did you write it for me? Did you write it about me? Am I wrong, Minnie? Tell me if I’m wrong.”

 

Jimin trembles.

 

“Tell me if I’m wrong” Taehyung whispers.

 

“Am I wrong to assume that you love me? Because I really fucking love you. I loved you back then, when we were dumb little kids and didn’t even know what love was. I felt it way back then when we were in the mountains and I tried to hold your hand. And you told me to get off and asked me what the hell I thought I was doing.”

 

He remembers now. The dark shadows of the trees, Taehyung’s hand small and clammy in his own. He had been just as frightened then, and had pushed him away. He had forgotten like it was nothing. And Taehyung had clung to that memory and let it rest on him like a headstone.

 

“And then you did it again. Six months ago. I felt like such an idiot. I’ve been coming on to you all this time and you’ve done nothing but push away. And I know you like me. You moved out with me. You lived with me. Shit, you saved my life. People don’t do that if they don't care. So Minnie, what are you so scared of?”

 

He’s scared of ruining Taehyung. Perfect, precious Taehyung who deserves the world and more, but he can’t give it to him. Because unwittingly they had broken one another and it’s all his own fault.

 

“You don’t understand- all those good things I want in life, the house, the dream job, the kids, they’d all mean nothing, nothing if it weren’t with you.”

 

“Don’t you dare say that, Taehyung, don’t you dare say that”

 

He allows himself to throw his arms around Taehyung’s neck the way he had only ever dreamt of, and their lips are so close they’d brush if he moved in just a fraction of a centimeter closer. Taehyung’s large hands grip his waist abruptly and he realizes he’s trembling just as hard. Their bodies are pressed together as tightly as they had been that summer day, when Jimin had still been too afraid to let himself love.

 

“Your girlfriend-”

 

“We were never together you tool. I was lying to see how you reacted. And you didn’t react. What a massive waste of time. I’ve been trying to rouse you this whole damn time and you never seemed to notice. All those people I went with to convince myself it wasn’t you- you didn’t seem to care.”

 

He brings his forehead down to touch with Jimin’s. There is no doubt now, no anger and confusion. The air is sparked with a different kind of tension all together- it’s a matter of time before one of them act on it.

 

“Don’t run” Taehyung murmurs.

 

“Won’t” he whispers back.

 

 

The kiss is unbearably tender and Taehyung sighs into it like he’s in love. (He is, fuck, he’s in love with Jimin). His right hand travels to trace Jimin’s jawline, pulling him in as he nips at his bottom lip. Jimin is the first to cock his head slightly, adjusting the angle to slip his tongue between Taehyung’s parted lips. It turns messy in a second, Taehyung panting as their tongues intertwine. Jimin ruts up against Taehyung, delighting at the way his body radiates heat, his excitement apparent.

 

He’s slept with so many people before, beautiful people too. But Kim Taehyung is incomparable. His eyes are clouded with tears and lust, lips soft and wet from their kiss. He looks the picture of sin peering down at Jimin through choppy bangs.

 

And then he’s pushing his hand into Taehyung’s jeans, fumbling with his belt before whipping it off and sending it flying. Taehyung has him up on the kitchen counter in seconds, putting himself between his legs like he belongs there. He has to be by far, the best thing Jimin has ever sandwiched between his thighs.

 

When he grips Taehyung’s cock for the first time it _throbs_ , and he lets out a cry of pure pleasure, a sound which makes Jimin’s dick kick with excitement.

 

“Fuck you” Taehyung moans.

 

“Fuck you and these fucking thighs. You have no idea how many times I’ve jerked off to them. Fuck.”

 

If only to please Taehyung, Jimin hurries to wiggle out of his clothes, pushing Taehyung away for a moment to close his legs and throw his jeans off, onto the kitchen table. He’s sitting there in all his naked glory now, and Taehyung is eating it up with his eyes. He feels so deliciously vulnerable, and he knows Taehyung likes what he sees, eyes moving from his pecs to his stomach and finally to his cock, hard and curved up against his stomach.

 

“Jiminnie”

 

It’s maddening that Taehyung is still fully clothed so he wrestles him between his legs again, tugging off his adorable sweater and fumbling at the infernal buttons of his dress shirt. And Taehyung is naked now, dick poking out from his boxers which he tugs down with his free hand while the other grips Jimin’s length with little hesitation.

 

Jimin whines. His dream boy, grabbing at his dick and circling his thumb around the tip. Heaven.

Taehyung’s hands grapple at every part of him, kneading his thigh, touching his stomach before coming to rest on his hips again. His eyes are wide and full of marvel. Jimin can’t handle how wonderful he looks, beautiful and fucked up and breathing softly as he jerks Jimin off with languid but firm strokes.

 

“Come closer, Tae”

 

He complies. He ends up with his head resting on Jimin’s shoulder, nuzzling the crook of his collarbone with his nose. Jimin reaches down, pulling at Taehyung’s girth eagerly. He jerks up into his touch, grip tightening around Jimin. A small oh escapes his mouth.

 

“Jimin, can I suck you off? Please, I- I’d do anything if you let me, please, please-“

 

“Fuck Taehyung, do you even have to ask?”

 

And he could probably shoot his load just at the sight of Taehyung dropping to his knees, lips parted and canines twinking in the golden light. His skin is honey brown, his nipples perky, stomach tight and defined. Taehyung rests his chin on Jimin’s thigh, the junction where it connects to his hips. His cheek is touching the side of Jimin’s dick, and Jimin feels he could die just about now. Taehyung looks peaceful, almost like he’s resting. His hand, bony long fingers stretched over sharp knuckles grips the meat of Jimin’s thighs.

 

And then without warning, he takes Jimin in the mouth. No pussyfooting around, either. Jimin feels the tip of his dick touch the back of Taehyung’s throat and throws back his head to scream. The walls are thin but he doesn’t care, his toes are curling with pleasure and he’s shaking.

 

 

“Taehyung-ah, that’s so so good, god your throat so tight-shit- _ugh_ ”

 

 

Everything else is lost in the rabbling, his body loosening as he falls apart under the way Taehyung’s tongue runs thick and wet up his dick. He has to force himself to look at the ceiling. The visual of Taehyung deep-throating his cock, tongue tickling his pubic hair with his eyes closed is too much, and he doesn’t want Taehyung to think he’s some premature ejaculator.

 

Taehyung rolls his tongue around the tip again, hand stroking the shaft of Jimin’s dick gently. He’s gonna cum. It’s too much. Too much too soon. His hand shoots out to tangle in Taehyung’s hair, tugging him down to choke on his length. Taehyung gags, the sound echoing obscene through their kitchen. Jimin rocks back. He’s so close.

 

He looks down for a split second, and their eyes meet. Taehyung is teary, eyes hooded and clouded with lust. His throat constricts, so _wet_ and tight. Jimin doesn’t top, but he wouldn’t mind this. Fucking Taehyung senseless on the kitchen counter.

 

Taehyung’s mouth pops off with a wet _plop_ sound, and a string of saliva bridges the distance between his tongue and Jimin’s dick. He’s throbbing. Literally, twitching with arousal. Lord. Taehyung clutches tighter at the base. He hasn't let go all this time, thumb pressing carefully into his balls.

 

“Jimin” he whispers. Precum glistens on his bottom lip.

 

And with that, Jimin cums. All over Taehyung’s face, semen shooting out of his cock and coating Taehyung’s lips, nose, even part of his forehead. He clenches his teeth but can’t stop the escape of a guttural moan, and he thinks he’s ascended to heaven when he looks back down and Taehyung is staring up with large, lovely eyes, Jimin’s jizz splattered across his lips.

 

A flush is creeping across his face, not arousal, something else.

 

Embarrassment.

 

“Taehyung- did you cum?”

 

Taehyung’s softening dick rests against his right thigh. Cum trickles down to pool on the floorboards. His hand hurries to cover himself but he’s too late- his right hand clutching at himself, an attempt to cover-

 

“Taehyung, what’s that on your wrist?”

 

They look down, Jimin from up on the counter and Taehyung resting on his knees, as if in prayer. In the tiniest font, but bold and clear for the world to see is the name _Park Jimin_ , snuggled on Taehyung’s wrist like it’s belonged there all his life.

 

His eyes flicker to the desk clock, that tiny thing Taehyung had purchased in the name of minimalism. He can’t make out the clock handles out in the darkness-never could, but it points to roughly 12:10AM.

 

It’s the last day of the year.

 

\--

 

 

Jimin can’t exactly garner Taehyung’s reaction from the top of his head and his bare shoulders, but he isn’t making an awful lot of noise. His face turns up slowly to Jimin and he almost laughs because he’s fucked it all again. Taehyung has jizz on his face, they’re both naked and the cold is settling in their bones.

 

And Taehyung is his soulmate.

 

“Jimin, it’s you”

Taehyung’s eyes are melting into crescent moons, his laugh filled with pure jubilation. It catches and Jimin is laughing, face in his palms and tears bursting through his opened fingers like rainfall; he is just so happy. He doesn’t see when Taehyung springs up to envelope him in a tight embrace, no sexual undertones or lust, just two naked bodies against one another for warmth. For love.

 

 

So he laughs into Taehyung’s broad shoulder blade, roping his arms around his back so their chests are touching, and he had forgotten just how _warm_ Taehyung is, and how solid and heavy he could be beneath his palms.

 

They sleep in Jimin’s bed, and Jimin has a sneaky suspicion that they may never need separate beds again. It had all been dry denial, the absolute disbelief that there was the faintest possibility of Taehyung loving Jimin as acutely and painfully as he did.

 

And now they lay together.

 

Dressed in a loose-fitting T-shirt Taehyung is angelic as ever. He really is remarkable. The best, most beautiful thing Jimin has ever seen. He smiles, lips curling into a tired smile and Jimin remembers watermelon rinds in Busan. What had he been running from?

 

“I’m so glad it’s you.”

 

“Me too, Tae”

 

Taehyung falls asleep in the early hours of the morning and Jimin wants to wake him, wants to talk and fill all the space and time they’ve lost. But there’s no rush. Taehyung will be there when he wakes up in eight hours time, and he’ll still be there tomorrow, and the day after that and the week after that too.

 

\--

 

 

“So when did you realize the soulmate mark was on your wrist?”

 

“Like, just as you were grabbing my hair. And I was like, man’s about to nut. I can’t interrupt him.”

 

“Tae, I think soulmate bonding is a little more important than any blowjob”

 

“I finish what I start.”

 

“Christ-shut up. Aren’t you studying for your finals? Get to it, you dork”

 

“Right, love you”

 

“Love you too, idiot”

 

_Click_

_Click_

 

\--

 

 

Jimin’s hands are unsteady from overuse, fingers crooked and painfully stiff from hours of furious writing. A blister is forming on his forefinger where his fountain pen digs in; four hours of abuse and his hand screams for release. It doesn’t help that his studio is constantly freezing- if he drinks tea and breaths into the air his breath curls up in pearly white tendrils.

 

But he persists. His third book is falling into shape and he’s just adding the finishing touches, polishing and re-polishing every word, every sentence.

 

Writing about heartbreak had been a difficult enough task, but writing about love was downright unfeasible. He struggles to describe the way Taehyung makes him feel indestructible, like the world really is his oyster and things are okay. Nothing makes him want to live, like Taehyung does.

 

So with a shaking hand he returns to the first page of his draft, hand pausing over the unspoiled and creamy white under the harsh lights.

 

 

_To Tae,_

_My accomplice, the love of my life._

_Everything I write is for you._

 

 

 

The time shows 1:45PM which means the train from Busan arrives in just under an hour. Taehyung will be towards the back, facing the front of the train as he always does. He’ll step out into the sun with a laugh on his lips, and Jimin will taste his elation as they kiss. 22, and he looks as young as ever. The years haven’t weathered him, and they never will.

 

Taehyung is still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.

 

 

He stands up, exiting the room to prepare for Taehyung’s arrival. A light breeze blows in through the open windows, cold and fresh. The curtains billow like ship sails.

 

It’s a bright spring day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: im gonna write a sequel for namjin kids sorry not sorry


	3. baby please (stay gone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon finds Seokjin, 5 years after he disappeared. 
> 
> Epilogue for my original vmin fic.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [inspired mainly by this song<](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyA0MjMU2Hw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by @ParkMiYoung and a few others. 
> 
>  
> 
> So, if y'all haven't read the first two chapters you dang well should, because otherwise this will make NO sense whatsoever. Also, if you don't like endgame? probs dont read this bc its a sad time yeah? check the tags kids. You've been warned. 
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyA0MjMU2Hw)

 

 

The bus trundles along a worn dirt path swaying dangerously and Namjoon feels- (surely not?) slightly seasick. He has grave concerns as to whether or not the driver is licensed. She constantly confuses the accelerator with the brake and there have been one too many “narrow misses” for his liking.

He calls Jimin.

 

“Joonie!!”

Jimin always responds on the third ring, his voice is mellow and flouncy. Namjoon feels a smile hitch on his face despite his current circumstances.

“Jimin, you little shit. Did you book the cheapest bus in the entire province? You do know that I’m an _adult_ with a _salary_ right?”

 

Jimin breaks down into a litany of excuses, claims ranging from _You spend too much money on that silly expensive alcohol_ and _Did you really need a life-sized Ryan figurine?_ The elder had never excelled at managing his taxes, bills or expenses and Jimin had assumed the roll of part-time accountant after they had met a year ago. But sometimes he becomes over-excited with his money-saving antiques and landed Namjoon in situations like, well -this.

“Sure, the bus ticket costs less than a loaf of bread. But does it really matter if I don’t even make it to Seoul in one piece-“

 

Jimin wails down the phone, sound high-pitched and smooth in his ear. Jimin will always pick up when he calls, but he won’t necessarily show up. He breaks a lot of promises. It had taken some getting used to at first. He had expected too much from Jimin too soon, and had almost frightened him off with his loneliness. There were clear-cut boundaries which he was expected to obey and he had struggled, because a relationship was expansive and forgiving, whereas what he had with Jimin was not.

“Joonie? You listening?”

“Yes, I think you were discussing the long-term benefits of saving conscientiously throughout your youth-“

 

The breaks slam and he’s thrown forwards, his height the only thing that prevents him from smacking his head into the seat before him. Instead, the seat digs painfully into his chest and winds him. His phone flies from his hand, skidding down the aisle and coming to rest forlornly on the ground. Hiking up his trench coat, he smooths a trembling hand through his hair.

“Ahjumma!” he hollers.  
“What’s going on!?”

 

The bus driver, some old crone of a thing turns back and scrutinizes him with her beady eyes.

“The engine’s stopped.” She barks.  
“Everybody off the bus!”

 

 

\--

 

“Joonie, what was that awful noise??”

 

“That, Jimin my dear, is the sound of the bus breaking down two hours from Seoul, leaving me stranded on the fucking highway. You are the worst travel agent in Korea, Minnie”

 

\--

 

The highway. A barren stretch of concrete snaking into the distance, three hundred metres from the dirt track they had been meandering down. Puzzling that she had chosen the side road in the first place- Namjoon is now fully convinced that the woman has neither any knowledge of roads nor vehicles in general.

The three other passengers on the bus have disappeared mysteriously, either lost in the forest or pursuing some alternative methods of transportation which Namjoon has no access too. He faintly regrets not following one of them or at least seeking help- but it’s too late now he’s stood on the edge of this six-lane highway in the little dip used for weary travellers to stop and rest their heads for a few minutes.

 

He has absolutely zero fucking idea what he’s going to do.

 

He rings his mother, to no avail. Silly woman is probably at the fishmonger, haggling over the price of Halibut for the tenth time this week. She’s relentless when she focuses, a quality he’s inherited. Not excellent in his time of need though.

Jimin? No car. Useless. And with that, he’s exhausted his supply of reliable friends, and he feels hopelessly lost. He considers ringing one of his co-workers, one of the few who skirt around him at work and never invites him for drinks- but the idea is so distasteful that he pockets his phone without a second thought.

 

What to do.

 

\--

 

So he ends with his thumb sticking up suspended in the air, his suitcase leant against his left leg and face burning in shame. Passing cars regard him with curiosity, others with mockery. Hitchhiking is uncommon in any part of Asia, let alone on this goddamn highway connecting Busan to Seoul. Paired with his businessman attire and clean haircut, he makes an odd spectacle.

A car whooshes past, three children and a dog sticking their necks out of the open window like some 80’s American film. They laugh in bubbling unison and Namjoon feels his blush deepen, his hand dipping from fatigue and humiliation.

 

And then, like some spontaneous miracle, he observes a Honda Odyssey swaying through the packed lanes while blinking rapidly and pushing from the furthest lane, gradually, into the closest. The car comes to a screeching halt inches from Namjoon’s feet and he steps back in surprise as dust settles on his leather shoes. The passenger side door slams open and Namjoon can’t make out the insides of the car, can hardly see the mop of bright blonde hair and the sunglass perched upon it.

His heart leaps.

 

“Get in the car”

 

He doesn’t move. No, the voice isn’t right. Not quite. Five years doesn’t change a voice like that. He feels his shoulders relax and he hurries into the front seat, ignoring the rapid-fire honking of the cars queueing behind the offending Odyssey. He jams himself into the seat, propping his suitcase uncomfortably into his lap. The plastic wheels dig into his thighs but he ignores the burn- he feels only relief as the car indicates thrice, merging with difficulty into the fast-moving row of cars.

 

“What the fuck!? What took you so long!? Wouldn’t you just get into a fucking car if they tell you to!? Especially if you’re _hitchhiking!?_

“I’m sorry” he mutters.  
"I mistook you- for someone else”

 

The dude makes a low sound of anger, clearly regretting his decision. His fingers clench and unclench slowly around the steering wheel. The action is eerily familiar. The man is eerily familiar. His voice, the colour of his skin, even the way his eyebrows-

 

“Jackson?”

 

He stiffens visibly. He turns his head warily to glance at Namjoon, a tentative grimace on his handsome face.

 

“Namjoon. Long time no see.”

 

\--

 

The following twenty minutes are undoubtedly the most uncomfortable of Namjoon’s entire life. He shifts in his seat wishing he was standing back on the dusty highway watching the sun dip beneath the horizon because _anything_ would be more comfortable than the stifling tension in the small space- so palpable he feels choked by it.

 

Jackson.  
One of his oldest friends. They had met in primary school, grubby hands scrunched together to form fists and Jackson had thrown first. The altercation had been brief but violent- Namjoon had bawled his eyes out in the nurse’s room and they had become best friends shortly after.

And what a friendship it had been. His days were filled with sunny smiles and running feet; exploring the world around them and manouevering the cramped streets, fish stalls and Sunday markets. Their world had shrunk rapidly as they grew older but their friendship remained solid; even through years of turmoil, the rapidly growing interest in soulmates and the opposite gender.

 

As if some by some predetermined script they had fucked.

Accidentally.

No, experimentally.

 

And kept at it, for _years._

 

Countless fucks on the kitchen counter, sneaking kisses behind closed doors. Blowjobs in church and under the dinner table, as filthy and fucking unethical as two teenagers engaged in casual sex can be. Jackson was insatiable. Namjoon, bottomless. They were a match made in heaven.

Seokjin had come and Jackson had gone, almost simultaneously. When Jackson left without explanation to a foreign university across the ocean Namjoon had cried the same way he had in primary school when they were toddlers; every bit as incapable and lost as they seemed now.

 

19 years old.

Jackson had left two days after his coming of age, and he hadn’t seen him since. Seokjin had been the most welcome distraction.

 

 

 

 

And now.

He’s trying to make awkward conversation at dusk, wondering if weather is a good topic to breach with a person he used to take inside him. Namjoon feels disappointed and sombre, like Jackson is just another cast member in the shitshow that is his miserable life. Another relationship he fucked up unwittingly, only to have it resurface and fuck him around at the worst of times.

 

 

After three failed attempts at conversation Namjoon falls silent, letting the soundlessness hurt his soul instead of seeking to resolve it. One hour and a half from Seoul. Have strength, Namjoon. He settles for studying Jackson’s side profile, as roguishly handsome as ever. He had never been a pretty boy- never liked tulips or cream soda. Jackson was rough and coarse and laughed with his head thrown back. His aftershave was prominent and his hair was tufty and thick. He was one of the most unabashedly alive, attractive, alluring people Namjoon had ever met.

Jackson catches him looking and flicks his head sideways at break-neck speed and Namjoon is too slow to look away. They end up making eye contact in the dark, the radio crooning softly in the background and the mechanical humming of the engine filling the air between them.

 

“How’s the English, Namjoon?”

 

The question is carefully curated, as if Jackson has been thinking about nothing else for the past half hour.

 

“Not bad, and I see you’re not too bad yourself.”

“Shit, you sound like a yank. When did you get so darn posh?”

“Coming from you mate”

 

And it’s the simplest thing in the world. Jackson’s laughter balloons from within his chest and he’s leant over the steering wheel minutes later as Namjoon recounts some comical experience he had in Texas county last year involving a screwdriver, a scarecrow and an angry farmer.

 

And get this, those few seconds of intimacy cancel out every lost year, forgotten phone call and lonely night. They fall back next to one another as naturally and smoothly as gravity dropping a feather to the ground- slowly but definitely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Namjoon- where are you staying during your trip?”

“Why do you ask?”

 

\--

 

Jackson’s apartment is shit. Close to the city centre but a big adjustment for Namjoon, who is accustomed to spacious rooms and sweeping corridors. He almost regrets bailing out on his cushy 4-star hotel for some ramshackle condo, albeit with a gladly received room-mate.

Jackson runs his fingers along the dented walls, tapping at grooves in search for the light switch. Flicking it on, he turns back to Namjoon as if to glean his reaction. There’s a slight hopelessness to his voice as he begins to loosen his tie, setting his briefcase to the ground.

 

“It’s not much” he admits.

“But it’s home”

 

Namjoon smiles a little. The two of them are of humble origins- he’s slept in bunkers and car boots before. This is heaven in comparison. He used to be dirty and wilder. He’s grown old and prissy. They all have. Jackson reminds him of more vibrant days.

 

“It’ll do just fine Jackson. Thanks so much for letting me stay”

 

Jackson smiles, unbuttoning his suitcoat. He throws it on the coatrack, brushing his hair up to reveal his tanned forehead. He’s striking from every angle, even tired and bedraggled after a long day in the car. He moves towards the kitchen to boil the kettle and Namjoon shifts towards the couch, plopping his luggage onto the carpeted ground.

The house is clean, and smells homey. There’s that musky, sweet smell of cologne and a hint of citrus that he hasn’t smelt in so long. He’s not a big cologne user himself- and had always enjoyed men who were. Jackson had been no exception. On the walls are a series of photos. He’s surprised to see a family portrait. A younger Jackson with dark hair smiles awkwardly at the camera with his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a younger woman, impossibly pristine with her gloved hands fixed neatly across her thin knees.

 

 

“Wife” Jackson remarks, before Namjoon can ask.

“Divorced me last year. Haven’t seen her since. We nailed it to the damn wall because she said it’d be forever. Then she up and leaves and I can’t take it off the wall because it’ll leave marks.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.”

 

 

 

 

But he’s more sorry for the sinking feeling when he originally spotted the picture, and the rough sense of panic at the idea that Jackson could be married. And definitely for the rush of relief he feels now, knowing Jackson is as lonely and desolate as he is.

The other pictures vary. Some are of her, the same pretty lady with the snaggly tooth laughing openly at the camera. She looks so jubilant it’s difficult to appreciate that the two had fallen out- she had left him. Like Jin had left him.

 

No. Don’t.

 

 

He sleeps that night in Jackson’s bed. Listening to his soft snores carry through the still air he wonders how Jackson would react if he woke him right now with a touch to the arm. Perhaps they could stay up all night and talk about the things they lost and how to regain them. If they can at all. He can’t imagine Jackson would push him away, but he’s too scared to reach out anymore.

He springs up to patter across the floorboards, pushing the bedroom door shut gently. In the dark blue he fumbles for the bed posts, bringing himself back to the empty sheets.

 

It’s hard to sleep alone.

So naturally, he thinks about Seokjin. He wonders if he’s out there right this moment, missing and loving him as well. He hopes so, but he’s also terrified that Jin has been hurting all this time too.

 

 

 

 

\--

“You wanna go out?”

“What?”

 

It’s the morning after and Jackson scratches himself sleepily beneath an old t-shirt. The hem rides up and Namjoon catches a glimpse of his scandalously toned stomach; he tries his hardest to ignore it. Saturday morning and the sun is out. Prime time for a young person like himself to hit the town; but he hasn’t in so long and he’s not sure he has the courage to.

 

“I’ll come with you”

“Really?”

 

Jackson rolls his eyes, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His stubble has grown overnight and he looks messy, unkept. He wears it well- stunning in the frigid cold air. They eat fruit loops because neither can cook anything more sophisticated than a fried egg and Jackson is out of eggs. He’s promised they’ll go to the supermarket together and Namjoon feels slightly flustered by all these joint missions.

 

“I’m meeting some old friends at this Malaysian place. They’re from Busan too, actually. Just in Seoul for some shopping. I’d love you to meet them.”

 

There’s no real reason to disagree. His heart hammers in his chest but he nods, willing himself to be stronger than this.

Jackson smiles. It’s like the sun is shining out of his goddamn face.

 

 

 

\--

 

The friends are late. Jackson laughs and says that one of them probably slept in, completely unperturbed by the fact that they’ve been loitering in this diner for 40 minutes. He drinks beer after beer, seemingly unbothered by the fact that it’s barely noon. Namjoon can’t be sure if he’s impressed of disgusted.

 

“Do you not have any friends?”

 

Fucking Jackson. Subtle.

 

“Not really anymore. Been years since I’ve had proper friends.”

 

His voice tapers off towards the end, more of a whisper. He fiddles with his fingers, staring intently at the ring Jimin brought him as a birthday gift last year. He has someone. He has Jimin and Jackson right now, and his family still loves him. It gives him a spark of courage. He plods on.

“After Jin left me- I dunno, people just didn’t come near me anymore. We had a lot of mutual friends and I lost them all. And then all my co-workers, Jin’s own family, even some of my own family cut contact with me. I think it’s partially the stigma attached to having your soulmate leave you. We were that close. Everybody always thought we were soulmates”

 

Jackson sips on his beer, licking at the foam coating the golden liquid. He drinks slow, and not like he enjoys it either. There is unmeasurable pity in his eyes.

 

“Were you soul mates?”

“No. We weren’t”

 

It would have been so magnificently simple if they had been. A solid foundation of commitment and love, delivered to them by fate. Okay, he’s fucking jealous. Salty, of all those lucky bastards who had loving relationships delivered to them on silver platters by none other than the universe itself. The others had to struggle- and struggle they did. Love was fraught with complications and disappointment and loss.

 

“Do you have a soulmate at all?”

 

Namjoon breathes. Moment of truth.

 

“Yeah. Not Jin. Somebody else. And I’m fair sure it’s one sided.”

“Ah. The thick plottens.”

 

Namjoon glares at Jackon, anxiety and pain eradicated. The fact that he’s joking about Namjoon petite mid-life crisis is ridiculous. But also, very Jackson. He feels slightly more cheerful now, which is something he’s never felt about his predicament.

 

“Did you order some fucking food at least?”

 

His thoughts are rudely interrupted by a short man with jet black hair, feline eyes squinted with apprehension. _Who the fuck?_ He slides abruptly into the seat opposite him, snapping his fingers angrily at a waiter passing by. His companion; a tall, offensively good-looking man with light brown hair tuts, stopping the shorter from his obnoxious finger-clicking.

 

“Yoongi-hyung please, I know you’re hungry but treat the wait staff with some respect”

 

 

 

 

As it turns out, the pair are late because “Yoongi-hyung” decided on a badly-timed shouting match in the restaurant parking lot with a woman who left her child locked inside the car. He had waited by the vehicle pressing his hand against the window, cooing at the distressed child before launching into a furious tirade at the irresponsible parent.

As you do. He is far softer than he seems, apparently.

 

Jungkook is lovely. Cocky, but he acts young and happy. He cackles too loudly and loves his partner. It’s strange that they have such opposing personalities- but somehow it works. When Jungkook stretches back to yawn his biceps flex and Namjoon spots “Min Yoongi” tattooed on the underside of his arm. From their interactions Namjoon can guesstimate they are mutual soulmates.

 

But their relationship is so pure and wholesome that he can’t bring himself to be angry about it. They complete each other. They fill the lacking parts of their personalities and operate as a team. What more, he finds he can bond with Yoongi over their love for indie music, and with Jungkook over his passion for fashion. The atmosphere inside the restaurant is cosy, with orange lights dangling from the ceiling and tables far too cramped for practicality. They eat with their elbows touching, and Namjoon swears Yoongi is resting his feet on his right knee.

When they depart it’s three hours later and Yoongi gives him his phone number, promising to catch up next week in Busan. Jungkook, the brat, pulls him up into a bear hug and laughs as he struggles in his iron hold, feet swinging off the ground. With Jungkook’s loose hairs tickling his chin he laughs, not caring the slightest that he’s being manhandled by a boy several years his junior.

 

 

 

Later that night he goes to the supermarket with Jackson. They run through the aisles in search for peach jam and buy three tubs of ice cream. With his feet skidding on Linoleum and face flushed with laughter he feels unashamed, completely free from the stares of strangers. Jackson laughs back at him as they walk home through neon lights, and eventually finds his hand in Namjoon’s, clutching tightly.

 

He lets it happen. Jackson runs him wild. Jackson makes him feel happy again.

 

That night, Namjoon takes the bed again. Tossing and turning he clutches at the sheets which smell so distinctly of Jackson, distracting him no end. Early morning, he hears a shift in the living room which confirms his suspicions that Jackson had never been asleep either. Jackson moves soft and light through the night air, creaking onto the empty side of the bed. Facing one another Namjoon feels incredibly nostalgic, remembering all the times they’ve slept in the same bed before.

Jackson pulls in close and he fears they’ll kiss but instead he rests his forehead wearily against Namjoon’s chest. His breathing slows rapidly and he grows heavy in Namjoon’s arms, drifting asleep.

 

 

\--

“Wanna go out?”

  
Déjà vu. Jackson is dressed down again, clothes old but attractive on his lithe frame. It’s too late to go out- clock ticking steadily towards 11PM but he knows he’d never say no to Jackson, especially Jackson like this.

 

 

They fight over the AUX cord and Jackson wins. Namjoon ends up stuck behind the driver’s wheel, worrying the blinker. Jackson’s playlist is all heavy bass and shaking beat-drops but he doesn’t even mind. Jackson sings along loud and off key, and they blast the AC until they’re sweating in their seats, forced to discard their heavy winter coats to bear arms.

Jackson directs him out of Seoul, away from the great city with its rushing lights and cigarette streets. They retrace the same road they took two days ago, back towards Busan. Eventually Jackson directs him off the highway through some quaint little town where the residents have already fallen asleep, lights few and dimmed. The streets are narrower, houses ancient. He marvels at the architecture as they trawl past- the exquisite roof tiles, Bonsai lining the wide gardens. It’s the sort of provincial life he’d always dreamed of but been too terrified to pursue.

 

 

They stop at a park, swing set standing solitary and high like a palace in the grass. Jackson runs out to the swings almost before Namjoon is parked, swinging his legs over and squeezing his body into the tiny seat. They’re too old for this kind of shit, but Namjoon follows suit. Jackson’s breath rises silver and seems to grace the moon.

 

“Look up” he murmurs, teeth chattering.

 

The stars are like he’s never seen before. They shimmer violently, like an upended jewellery box in the heavens. He can spot deep black through the gaps of the fabric of constellations, but it really seems like there are nothing but pieces of light in the sky, stretching out infinitely. His mouth drops open involuntarily.

He’d never known life could be so beautiful.

 

 

 

“Beer?”  
“What the fuck”

 

Sure enough, Jackson is sneaking what looks suspiciously like Sapporo out of his waistband. His tracksuits boast physics-defying storage capacity and it makes Namjoon huff with laughter. He takes it. It’s stupidly warm but pops when he pulls the tab. He downs it quickly, eyes on the stars.

 

“She used to hate how bad I was with liquor. Couldn’t drink a fucking thing without throwing up. So I started drinking heaps to impress her. Hated every mouthful. And even when she’s gone, I can’t stop drinking. And I still hate it. She didn’t change a damn thing.”

 

Namjoon swigs the remaining contents inside his own beer can. His eyes looking anywhere but Jackson. He misses entirely the way Jackson stops swinging, coming to plant his feet firmly on the lush grass. He notices only when Jackson is standing in front of him, hands grabbing the chains to cage him in. Framed by the starlight and cold night air, they become nineteen again.

When Jackson kisses him he tastes of beer, an accumulated sourness which hints that this certainly isn’t the first drink he’s had today and won’t be the last either. It’s a sad kiss, relying mostly on muscle memory and the excruciating need to be _wanted._ Jackson breaks off after a few seconds, peppering kisses on the corner of Namjoon’s mouth, his cheek, and finally his forehead.

 

“When I went away, I tried not to miss anything. I didn’t think about my family, or even my friends. I didn’t miss Korea. I didn’t care. But I missed you. I missed you every single day. For so much longer than I thought I would.”

 

He peers down now, and only then does Namjoon see that he’s crying, fat tears dripping down to trace his cupid’s bow.

 

“Joonie, what did you really come here to do?”

 

He doesn’t know anymore. He had been so set on finding Jin and dragging him back to their life, but experiencing all these things with Jackson has made him realise that Jin isn’t the only person in the world who can make him smile. Jin has faded away in his mind into some abstract idea which he can paint in words but not feelings. He can't remember the sound of his laugh, nor the colour of his irises. He’s wasted away slowly but surely and right now- right now he can’t even remember what it was like to be in love with Jin.

 

“Joonie” Jackson whispers again.

 

“How crazy, right? That you so happen to catch a bus from Busan on the same day I’m completing a business trip. And that bus breaks down and you’re stranded on the road- at the exact same moment I happen to drive by and somehow, somehow we end up in the same car together.”

He blinks, tears flecking his puffy cheeks.

 

“What a crazy, crazy coincidence, right?”

He sounds like he’s narrating a satirical play. As aloof as he seems, he’s shrewd and clever. Perhaps he knew from the start. Lies never sat well with him.

Upon return to the car they unravel in the backseat. Less words than ever, and they touch each other like they did when they were just young kids. Jackson burns up beneath his fingertips, voice muddled with tears. He’d once memorized every groove in his flawless body, every hitch in his breath. He knows the signs, and he had always loved the way he threw back his head to cry his name.

 

 

The stars are still bright when they drive home and Jackson wakes up only once to tell Namjoon he’ll drive him to the wedding tomorrow. And then he sleeps so heavily Namjoon is forced to carry him up the stairs to the apartment, jostling him with each step and taking utmost care to not rouse him from his sleep- feeling he can’t do anymore talking, not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.

 

 

\--

 

 

The church isn’t as he imagined. It’s a tiny little thing fringed in with tall trees brushing its slanted roofs. Jin would’ve chosen something more grand, monumental in presence and appearance. He liked to give a show, and Namjoon had been sure his wedding would be one such occasion. The carpark only holds ten cars and is empty, as expected of a Monday morning. But it strikes him as odd that the entire area is deserted, save the low whistle of the wind through the trees.

Dressed in his best suit and carrying his invitation he tries not to scream as Jackson fails three times to park the car straight- having to pull out entirely and retry again before finally making it between the lines. He’s terrified now. He imagines this is some revolting joke- Jin catfishing him to play with the broken bits of his heart one last time. It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him. He’d love how painfully crumpled Namjoon could get over him.

“Where are the guests?” Jackson asks worriedly.

“I don’t know” Namjoon chokes back.

 

 

He exits the car after a further twelve minutes of delay, Jackson rubbing a strong hand against his back to mutter hushed encouragement. He’s trembling. He wishes he weren’t here. Wishes he was at home with Jimin, instead of cowering against the dashboard of some run-down car scared witless of what more Jin could do to hurt him.

 

“You don’t have to go” Jackson whispers.

“Come home, and get your stuff. We can eat lunch and I’ll drive you back to Busan. Namjoon, baby, you don’t have to do this anymore.”

 

 _Baby_. It slips out so naturally Jackson surprises himself, his hand freezing momentarily where it’s rubbing small circles into Namjoon’s neck. It gives him incalculable strength. He touches Jackson softly, putting his own hand over his. Jackson will be here. Jackson will be waiting in this carpark when he comes out, and they’ll fix themselves in their own time. But right now, he has to confront the thing that tore him down in the first place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The church is still a pokey little thing up close and the wooden doors squeak on the hinges, in terrible need of oiling. He winces at the noise; so dynamically loud ringing through the deserted interior of the building. Deserted, as he had expected. It empties him and he becomes nothing amongst the towering beams. The stain glass windows depict roses, gentle shades of crimson and maroon. It fills the church with permanent light, stained sunset. Time is frozen here amongst the stiff wooden pews. He feels in-measurably blank and almost calm- as if Seokjin hasn’t conned him for the last goddamn time and he came here of his own volition.

 

“Jin” he hawks.  
“You got me”

 

“Did I?”

And Namjoon ceases to breathe. There he is. Not some ghostly apparition. Kim Seokjin, in the flesh. Sitting by the organ he’s so distractingly vivid it’s a miracle he missed him in the first place. And oh, he is _so_ beautiful. His lovely eyes, his cheeks, the sweep of blonde hair (to the right, always to the right). Dressed in a simple suit, his white dress shirt glares in the darkness. His head is cocked as if he can’t figure out himself what’s happening here. His hands station him on the low stool, legs splayed out to accommodate his height. Everything falls away and something sets off a chant in Namjoon’s head- _Jin Jin Jin Jin Jin is here Jin is back, Jin is coming home, Jin is-_

 

“What happened to the wedding?” he asks, voice cracking under the immensity of this moment. Like nothing ever went wrong and they’re still lovers, prosing over everything but nothing at all.

“What wedding?” Jin asks, his features porcelain in their perfection. He was never this beautiful. He hasn’t aged a day. He is a million times what Namjoon had dreamt of in every feverish nightmare.

 

“What do you mean, what wedding” he breathes.

“Baby” it slips out, and it's too late to take it back.  
“Tell me what’s happening”

 

“I’ll tell you” Jin says, finally standing to make his way down the shallow steps. Namjoon’s breath stops in his throat. Every second since he encountered Jin in this church has been a direct assault upon his respiratory system. He wills himself to push it out and pull himself up. Rise to this challenge.

 

“I made myself disappear”  
“Oh” Namjoon sighs.

 

 

 

“First, I tell everyone that you beat me. Easiest thing in the world. They believe my just like that. Poor, pretty Jinnie. Workaholic Joonie. Gets jealous, throws hands. The simplest goddamn scenario in the world, right? And I disappear. I ask them not to aid you. To push you away, without alarming you. I withdraw cash over time and stow it away. Burn my passports. File for a name change, and quit my job. Did you even realise? You didn’t. You’re so silly. It was the easiest thing in the world.”

 

He scrunches his eyes shut. It’s not real. It’s some fucked parody of some fucked up dream and he’ll wake up any moment with linen sheets sweat through and tears on his pillow.

He doesn’t.

The world remains solid and heavy beneath his feet and he’s just now coming to the realization that Seokjin concocted this entire disaster. Premeditated murder, and he had subjected himself to it like a _fool_.

 

“That’s fucked” he says.  
“That’s the most fucked up, twisted thing you could do.”

Nothing else comes. He’s crying already, salty tears rolling down his cheek to trace his jawline. He’s impossibly weak right now, and he should run for sake of self-preservation. But he won’t.

 

“Why would you do that” he gasps.  
“Did I do you wrong? How could you hate me so much?”

 

“Don’t you get it?” Seokjin snaps, obviously affronted that his criminal genius is wasted on the likes of Kim Namjoon, his ex-lover and plebeian. His scent drowns Namjoon in nostalgia, the same shit he fell in love with in that bathtub six, no seven years ago? What?

 

“I was testing you. I did this because I _wanted_ you.”

“I never-“

“Did you find him?”

 

They both stiffen at the mention. The taboo. That thing that had weighed them down for the entirety of their love and scrambled their minds into nothing. They’d try to work through it.

 

 

“Did you find your soulmate? Jackson? Was he good? Is he better than me? Do you _love_ him?”

“God, Jin, are we really fucking talking about this again I didn’t want Jackson I didn’t care about soulmates, I wanted you and I always-“

“Don’t argue with me!”  
Jin’s voice is shrill, eyes widening with furore. Namjoons is dead silent in a second. He always had that effect on him.

 

“Did you know how it felt? Waking up every fucking day with his name scribbled on your chest? How _miserable_ it made me feel!?”

 

He knows, of course he knows. The unwavering guilt and doubt that had driven him away from home, hating himself and Jackson, wishing to hell and back that it had been Jin instead. Because really, he had been so happy. Jin had made him the happiest man alive. And he hated himself for his indecision and inability to denounce Jackson openly- it had left Jin raw with tears and silent for days.  
Was this his retribution?

 

When Jin’s fingers skim his own softly he cringes, the touch bringing more pain than any sort of solace. Jin’s body presses hot against his own and he doesn’t return the affectionate hand splayed across his forearm. When he opens his eyes Jin is so _there_ , as if the last seven years of suffering and loss hadn't even happened and they could still go back home together.

 

He pulls away.

 

“I found Jackson” he says.  
“But I didn’t even tell him. I still thought that I could find you and we could do this again. But not anymore. Not anymore.”

 

Jin is so awfully flawless. As beautiful as the day he left Namjoon, face passive at the breakfast table as he said _See you at dinner_ and never showed, never showed. He’d done it all. Printed missing person posters, searched online, endlessly. He’d gone as far as filing a report with the police, and contacting the missing and unidentified persons system. He’d lived unscrewed, running mad within his own mind. The terrible possibility that Jin was dead, gone for good, buried in some godforsaken ditch had haunted him and he had worried himself to death.

 

“Am I still beautiful?” Jin tries, but they both know it’s finished.  
“Do you still love me? Baby, I believe in you now. Let’s go again.”

 

Namjoon closes his eyes and thinks of morning stubble and blonde hair under starlight. Sometimes, it’s harder to hold on than to let go, and he’s let go heavier things than this.

 

“No, baby” he says, as a way of goodbye.  
“I loved you. I really, really loved you.”

 

 

He turns before he has to see Jin cry again, cracks in his stronghold as he let himself be floored by all the tragedy. They were only human, after all.  
He closes the door and it creaks on its hinges, and then it’s finished and he steps out into the sunlight.

 

 

 

 

In the carpark, it’s like nothing ever happened. The sun still shines, and there’s a light breeze whipping up the leaves to batter against the rusty side of Jackson’s piece-of-shit car. He’s asleep in the driver’s seat, collar pulled down to reveal his sun-kissed skin and Namjoon smiles at how sloppy and childish he seems. His own tears are drying rapidly and he doesn't feel so dizzy anymore- just half-empty. Jin will always carry that part of him. He left with his heart and it never came back, but others can gradually fill that void.

He taps sharply on the driver’s seat window, giggling at the way Jackson grunts in his sleep.

 

“get up, bitch boy” he laughs as Jackson rolls over to turn his back.

“I have something to tell you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was tricky for me to write this, mostly because I had never intended to write it. At first I was angry at myself for caving into my reader's requests again, but I actually quite enjoyed this chapt by the end of it. 
> 
> And also, I know so many brilliant authors who don't communicate or associate with their readers. Like, why dude? These people have shed literal tears over your writing atleast chuck them a reply. So, I really do appreciate every single one of you reading this and I love going through comments etc etc and I will do almost everything within my power to please you, writing epilogues/ taking requests etc!! 
> 
> xx love you kids

**Author's Note:**

> On a gross and personal note, I’ve been having troubles with my writing this past month or so and it took forever to edit and write this thing, and I’m still not happy with it. 
> 
> My hope is that the readers who have also followed my last few fics (you know who you are) get some form of enjoyment out of this.


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